epistle to the rev. john m'math

    sept. 13, 1785.

    inclosing a copy of “holy willie's prayer,”

    which he had requested, sept. 17, 1785

    while at the stook the shearers cow'r

    to shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,

    or in gulravage rinnin scowr

    to pass the time,

    to you i dedicate the hour

    in idle rhyme.

    my musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet

    on gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet,

    is grown right eerie now she's done it,

    lest they should blame her,

    an' rouse their holy thunder on it

    an anathem her.

    i own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,

    that i, a simple, country bardie,

    should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,

    wha, if they ken me,

    can easy, wi' a single wordie,

    lowse hell upon me.

    but i gae mad at their grimaces,

    their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces,

    their three-mile prayers, an' half-mile graces,

    their raxin conscience,

    whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces

    waur nor their nonsense.

    there's gaw'n, misca'd waur than a beast,

    wha has mair honour in his breast

    than mony scores as guid's the priest

    wha sae abus'd him:

    and may a bard no crack his jest

    what way they've us'd him?

    see him, the poor man's friend in need,

    the gentleman in word an' deed—

    an' shall his fame an' honour bleed

    by worthless, skellums,

    an' not a muse erect her head

    to cowe the blellums?

    o pope, had i thy satire's darts

    to gie the rascals their deserts,

    i'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,

    an' tell aloud

    their jugglin hocus-pocus arts

    to cheat the crowd.

    god knows, i'm no the thing i should be,

    nor am i even the thing i could be,

    but twenty times i rather would be

    an atheist clean,

    than under gospel colours hid be

    just for a screen.

    an honest man may like a glass,

    an honest man may like a lass,

    but mean revenge, an' malice fause

    he'll still disdain,

    an' then cry zeal for gospel laws,

    like some we ken.

    they take religion in their mouth;

    they talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,

    for what?—to gie their malice skouth

    on some puir wight,

    an' hunt him down, owre right and ruth,

    to ruin straight.

    all hail, religion! maid divine!

    pardon a muse sae mean as mine,

    who in her rough imperfect line

    thus daurs to name thee;

    to stigmatise false friends of thine

    can ne'er defame thee.

    tho' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain,

    an' far unworthy of thy train,

    with trembling voice i tune my strain,

    to join with those

    who boldly dare thy cause maintain

    in spite of foes:

    in spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,

    in spite o' undermining jobs,

    in spite o' dark banditti stabs

    at worth an' merit,

    by scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,

    but hellish spirit.

    o ayr! my dear, my native ground,

    within thy presbyterial bound

    a candid liberal band is found

    of public teachers,

    as men, as christians too, renown'd,

    an' manly preachers.

    sir, in that circle you are nam'd;

    sir, in that circle you are fam'd;

    an' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd

    (which gies you honour)

    even, sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,

    an' winning manner.

    pardon this freedom i have ta'en,

    an' if impertinent i've been,

    impute it not, good sir, in ane

    whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,

    but to his utmost would befriend

    ought that belang'd ye.